“By who, what?” she screamed, staring up at him as if in desire as in need of a beating. When he could not smite such beauty, she cried at him:
“This house! This terrible tomb! My father would have called it this damned house. Well, it’s nothing but a madhouse to me, one of those places where they lock people up so that they may go insane really.”
He choked. It was bad enough for a lady to swear, for his wife of all ladies to swear, but there was a sacrilege in her curse upon this home.
This anathema and this bridal rebellion must be kept secret. Walls had ears but no lips to speak. Servants, however, had both long ears and large mouths; and negroes were blabbers.
And so for the sake of quiet, he crushed back his own wrath and his sense of her wickedness, and fell on his knees before her, imploring pardon as an idolater might prostrate himself before a shrine whence he received only divine outrage and injustice. And she was appeased by his surrender! And lifted him up in her arms amorously!
He resented her caresses more than her cruelty, but he preferred them because they were private and murmurous. He had an inherited passion for secrecy.
One day he learned that she had ordered her horse saddled without consulting him, or inviting him to ride with her. He sent the nag back to the stables, and when she came out habited, she was furious.
“You can’t ride alone about these woods,” he said.
“Why not? Who’s to harm me?”
“What if the horse bolted and flung you against a rock, or fell on you or dragged you? Besides, there are many bad characters hereabouts. Only a mile down the road is a family called Lasher.”